Bird's Aren't Real
by Gh0st7
Summary: Life is great for the members of a multinational, interdimentional shadow government, until many agents within its tightly knit web begin to go missing. Then the question arises - Who controls who?


**Chapter 1 – Recording**

"Oh my God, George, you actually think this is feasible? There is no way this will go over well with Washington, no one will be on board. You know bureaucrats, hell,_ I_ know bureaucrats!", a disembodied voice could be heard saying from off-screen."You worry too much. There's nothing here that anyone in management will object to, both of us know that," replied the man fixated in front of the camera, hidden behind distorted scan lines caused from two decades of overuse and decay on the VHS tape, "if anything, this is the safest option we have."

A pause could be heard in the dialog as the man in the picture could be seen putting on a pair of bright orange gloves and reaching into a cage which housed a pigeon that seemed more than eager to escape his tenacious grip as his hands quickly grabbed hold of the animal. It fidgeted and attempted to flutter its wings in a futile effort to break free that ultimately was unsuccessful.  
The conversation then continued as George turned his attention back to whomever was behind the camera.  
"I'm absolutely certain everyone will agree, even those on the floor above our own, that, as a collective, we cannot allow an opportunity this great to be… disregarded," said George, who could still be seen tightly gripping the frightened bird with a large smile on his face that seemed to get wider and wider with every word he spoke. He wore a white lab coat and black pants that carried a green tint only due to the surrounding colors of the recording bleeding together.  
His hair was almost an identical hue to his pants, with pale skin to contrast, almost blending into his lab coat were it not for the blue shirt he wore as an undergarment.

"I mean," started the disembodied voice, "is something like this even possible on a financial scale?"  
"Of course," replied George, providing a reassuring nod, "there's no reason to think we couldn't use funds set aside for all irrelevant projects."  
"Irrelevant?" Asked the mystery voice.  
"There's no reason to continue funding all of what will become obsolete once convince Congress to begin production – say, three years at most," George replied, still presenting a large smile that was over-saturated with an almost sickening amount of charisma.  
Another pause between the two individuals, this time the man behind the camera could be heard pacing back and forth, and whispering "oh my God" to himself over and over again. Though, this reaction didn't at all phase George, who still had the bird in his hands, which had seemed to calm down and accept that there was no possible method of escape.

"There are no reasons why this isn't a possibility, especially considering how the world is changing so rapidly. We'll need to adapt before a foreign power decides to one-up us," he said to frantic man behind the camera.  
"Put the bird down," demanded the mystery man, "put it down and put it away. I want it out of my sight; I don't want to see another damned bird for the rest of the day."  
"You don't mean that," said George, attempting to calm him down, "he's a good bird. He looks like the real thing, doesn't he?"  
At this point, the mystery man started to scream and even managed to get the elated George to temporarily retract his signature grin. Sounds of stomping and even the breaking of glass could be heard from what was presumed to be behind the camera, which was followed up by shouting and cursing.  
"You're not crazy, you're not even unhinged," screamed the man who's identity was still unknown, "you've completely lost any moral or rational direction! Nothing about this seems off to you? This project is, at best, a far reach; However, you've come to the conclusion that all we need to do is sign the paperwork and suddenly everything will just fall into place!"  
George seemed to regain his composure, gracefully placing the bird back into its cage and putting back on his toothy smile. He then reposition his form and faced the excited man, "That's all it takes, yes. We will sign on the dotted line and the rest is history."  
"Screw this up and I swear you will be answering to everyone," said the mystery man, calming down from his upset state, "I'm not vouching for you," he concluded as the tape came to an abrupt end, leaving nothing but quiet a static, followed by a blue screen with the word "analog" on the top right-hand corner.

As the television was shut off the familiar hissing sound of the antiquated tubes cooling filled the room stricken by an eerie silence.  
Fourteen men, all in black suits, were seated around a table with the television within comfortable viewing distance. Soundproof and blocked off from the rest of the world, every single article of clothing would resonate throughout the room whenever someone decided to readjust himself.

The gentleman closest to the television took off his glasses and began rubbing his face, which is obvious strewn with disbelief. Across from his sat another man, who's arms were cross and glance was fixated on the nothingness in between the air and table in front of him.  
The rest of the room was speechless, aside from the occasional sigh which was accompanied by raised eyebrows.  
"Skinner," said the man who had been rubbing his face, glasses still on the table beside him, "what in hell did we do?"  
A thin, tall man of middle-eastern descent stood up and walked over to the television, which was seated on a stand propped up on casters, and pushed it to the corner of the room. Taking its place, the one referred to as "Skinner" placed his hands behind his back and made eye contact with every other man in the room, "what we did was necessary," he said.  
"Necessary?" replied the one who proposed the question, "how did this even become priority without being run by us prior to its implementation?"  
"Most of you weren't involved in the drafting process, and thus were not considered whenever oversight was instituted," replied Skinner, "as you all knew this was well above top-secret."  
Everyone began exchanging glances ranging from confusion to apathy, all in a span of a few seconds. An older, African-American man took to his feet, placing his hands and directed his attention to Skinner, "would you mind explaining why you didn't even consider informing us that this kind of policy was being put into action?" He asked, a stationary scowl locked into the wrinkles and sunspots on his face.  
"As I said, you were not involved in the creation of the draft," Skinner replied.  
"Oh for God sake", responded the scowling public servant, "then who initiated this kind of legislation? Taco Bell employees, pizza delivery drivers?"  
"The ones who created the draft," said Skinner.  
"That doesn't answer the question," shouted one man in the room.  
"What on earth kind of idiot was it who and put forth any kind of idea like this in the first place?" yelled another.  
"Gentlemen, calm down," assured Skinner, "what we did was necessary."  
The energy had shifted from bewilderment to anger, with almost everybody demanding to know how they had been left out of such a critical decision. Fists were slammed on the table and spit was flying out of their mouths as profanities all from four letter words to insults pertaining to Skinner's competence were thrown in every direction.

"This hasn't gotten out to the public, no one but a select few outside of this room knows what has been done. This secret is safe," said Skinner, who's body language was attempting to quell the excitement among the thirteen other men.

"I suspect there's more to this story than we're being told," said one man, dusting off his coat.  
"You know everything that your security clearance has enabled me to tell you," replied Skinner.  
"Figures," responded the man as he slouched back into his chair and refolded his arms. His eyes then darted towards the elderly, black man who was still standing and hadn't changed his expression.

"Number 3," said Skinner, addressing the man who refused to lower his scowl, "We have done what we can with what we have at our immediate disposal."  
"Jesus Christ, apparently," replied 'Number 3' as he threw up his arms, "this could have been mentioned to at least one of us at any time during the last twenty years. We could have at least had a small hint that what was going on would be an effort to reinforce national security at a scale that no other civilization on this planet has ever achieved."

"Again, you were not par-" Skinner was suddenly cut off.  
"That's absolutely, without at doubt, the worst excuse for secrecy surrounding a project of this magnitude," interrupted Number 3.

The other men nodded in agreement, leaving Skinner alone to answer for his years of silence and what all the rest of the table viewed as "incompetence".  
No one spoke a word; all eyes upon the tan-skinned, slender individual who had the attention of everyone, who were hoping that the answers to every single question which swirled about in their heads all would be laid bare for each to hear with his own ears.  
Patiently, Skinner waited for what seemed like an hour to finally speak out, breaking the stalemate.  
"Are you ready to listen?"Skinner asked his audience.  
"We've been ready to listen since you brought us here, but not a goddamn thing has been explained," replied a young, blond haired, blue-eyed man who took to his feet in the same fashion as Number 3, "we deserve to know what's going on. We have been involved with this operation for almost as long as you, so there's no good reason we can't be given a satisfactory explanation."  
Once again, the men of the room were audible with their agreement.  
"That's right!", said one.  
"He's damn sure on the same page as the rest of us!", said another.  
Skinner tucked in his lips and looked towards the ceiling, flaunting an expression of utter annoyance. He let both of his arms down and placed them into his coat pockets and made direct eye contact with the suited person who had just made his opinion known.  
"Number 2," began Skinner, "out of everyone in this room, I was sure you would have read my mind by now. So if by some means of enlightenment, you have come to grasp the importance of privacy and thus have chosen to _not _peer into my conscious mind, then I would absolutely love to hear your reasoning."  
Number 2 grimaced, "I don't want to see all the shit you get off to," he said with a mix of sarcasm and scorn in his voice, "knowing you it's probably midgets and pregnant women."  
Skinner closed his eyes and did everything he could from allowing himself to be antagonized by the youngest person in the room. He then regained his composure and once again addressed the 5-foot, eight inch tall 'Number 2' who had decided to place himself back into the seat, leaving only Number 3 upright.

"Number 2, do you have anything else to say?" Skinner asked.  
"Not to you," Number 2 replied, putting both his feet on the table and hands behind his head, "besides, this room nullifies my psychic reach, so the only mind I can read right now is my own."  
Skinner nodded and faced back to the rest of men who still were waiting for a formal reply. He straitened and adjusted his tie, calibrating his posture to reaffirm a professional front.  
"To all of you," he began, "I want to apologize and make absolutely clear that it was not my original intention to leave anyone who has been loyal to our goal in the dark."  
His words were met with "uh-huh" and "get on with it", as the men grew more and more disgruntled every time he attempted to avoid approaching the reason the fourteen were gathered together in the first place.  
"That was because, prior to today, there was information which could have compromised this whole project if any of you had known," Skinner continued, "and that information is, we have lost control of all the drones."  
"All the drones?" said the man who's glasses still lay beside him.  
The rest rose into another tizzy, this time with red eyes and frothing out the mouth due to anger.  
"Number 6, 4 and 12, I'd suggest you calm yourselves before a stroke takes you down," said Skinner to no avail.  
"You lost the goddamn drones, Skinner? Your goddamn leukemia patients are worthless, and don't even get me started on your own inability to control any sort of organized effort," said Number 3, with a whole lot more anger on his face than before, "if there is a single fiber of responsibility in your entire body, I have yet to see it."  
Number 2's eyebrows were raised as he leaned back in his chair with his gaze fixated on Skinner's now broken demeanor.  
"What a surprise, Skinny," he said, "you screwed up."  
Number 2 stood up, stretched himself out and headed for the door. His hand touched the OSHA-certified leaver and just before he pushed down to retract the bolt managed to get one last comment out in midst of all the fuss and chaos.  
"You'll never change, Skinner."  
With that, he exited the room and proceeded to walk down the long, white hallway that lead to a colony of rooms all marked by corresponding numbers embedded in a brass wallplate beside each door.

Number 2 read them aloud to himself as he walked by.  
'1'

'2'

'3'

'4'

'5'

'6'

'7'

'8'

'9'

'10'

'11'

'12'

'14'

As he reached the end of the hallway, he was greeted with another door, which was the entrance to the employee lounge. Number 2 grabbed hold of the less prioritized, round doorknob and pulled open the wooden, slightly distressed entrance and walked inside. Immediately throwing himself on the couch, Number two stretched out and attempted to relax after the escapade that he was forced to sit through.

Decorated with a flat-screen television and many modern commodities, it was a quaint, humble escape from the everyday stresses of working within the confines of a multinational shadow government whom, since its undisclosed foundation, had operated from an unidentified location, that was presumed to be outside the barriers of space and time. Though, in truth, Number 2 didn't really care nor did he ever consider to ask. To him, this was the ordinary routine of everyday life.  
Like all of his colleagues, Number 2 was born in what he assumed was a "building" that had a seemingly infinite number of doors and numbers to match. In his youth, he would take the elevator next to his parents' room and press the "up" arrow over and over again and see how many floors he was able to reach before being stopped by an adult who's attitude towards exploring the compound wasn't nearly as adventurous.  
The "why" and "how" questions just never seemed that important – all that mattered was that he carried out the orders of the higher authorities, all of whom he had already met in person.  
Most were human while others were referred to as "type 2", which were these hairless, emotionless pale humanoids that everyone coined "half-caffs": human and alien hybrids that had been on the government's assembly line since the fifties in an effort to create a so called "perfect organism".  
Number 2 himself was the result of a hybrid father and a human mother, which was deemed to be impossible by the onsite breeding commission.  
At the age of four, he had already surpassed his father's telepathic abilities and his mother's callous witty humor. When he turned ten years old, Number 2 was first allowed to venture outside the walls of the building with the aid of his then acting supervisor, Skinner.  
At just fifteen years of age, Number 2 was not only given a position on the board of directors but given complete oversight of hybrid suits on and off the field. His responsibilities ranged from acting as a psychic communication beacon for HQ to determining which agents are the most fit for carrying out certain tasks based on psychic potential and physical attributes.

Now, almost two decades later, Number 2 was one of the most honored and celebrated people throughout the organization. No matter who he met, be it the overseers or rank-and-file grunts like himself, everyone knew his title: Number 2.  
He was only surpassed by the likes Skinner, who achieved his title by being the son of an overseer and deemed "extremely important" to meeting the goal.

After nearly an hour had passed and the faint screaming could still be heard coming from the other side of the hallway, Number 2 found himself watching a news report about three mass killings in Bosnia, that had been linked to a terrorist cell being run inside Saudi Arabia and funded by the Royal Family.  
"Three terrorists were apprehended at gunpoint only moments after the incident occurred," said the dark-skinned reporter with short hair and a face that was caked in makeup.  
"I still don't get why anyone wants to cover their skin with that kind of stuff," said Number 2 out loud to himself.  
The reporter and camera crew approached a police officer and asked what the motives were behind the attack.  
"They are terrorists, their religion is their cause. So long as the book these barbarians profess to is allowed to be read and taken literally, nothing will change," said the officer with a thick Eastern European accent, who was then instructed by the medical staff to come and help get one injured survivor into an ambulance.  
Number 2's eyes were glued to the screen, the police officer's words echoing in his head. He read the superimposed headline over and over again - _Saudi Linked Terrorist Cell Kills 24 in Random Attack._

Reluctantly, he pressed the remote's power button and forced himself off the couch.


End file.
